


Trying to do the Unimaginable

by ace_enderchest



Category: Dream SMP - Fandom, Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: 5+1 Things, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Dream Smp, Gen, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, References to Depression, Resurrection, Wilbur goes on a healing arc
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-16
Updated: 2021-03-23
Packaged: 2021-03-25 13:01:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,534
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30089499
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ace_enderchest/pseuds/ace_enderchest
Summary: When Wilbur comes back to life, he has a lot of atonement to do.6 people Wilbur has to make up with +1 he most definitely doesn’t (+1 he can’t quite make himself do, yet)AU, canon divergence after the Disc War Finale
Relationships: Eret & Wilbur Soot, Floris | Fundy & Wilbur Soot, Wilbur Soot & Phil Watson
Comments: 11
Kudos: 64





	1. Phil

**Author's Note:**

> This was all plotted out before the recent lore where we got an actual canonical afterlife and Aliven’tbur characterization, so it’s a pretty clear canon divergence. (And now I vibe more with the way he acts in canon. But whatever. Healing arc pog)
> 
> So a few notes: After the Disc War Finale. Phil and Eret try the resurrection one more time, and it works (Ghostbur had to lose all three canon lives). Time in the afterlife passes normally, and it’s also not an empty void, so Wilbur wasn’t alone for years with only his thoughts. Also the Egg hasn’t started to spread yet (mostly ‘cause I didn’t want to deal with that extra plotline lmao)
> 
> TWs for this chapter: Mild suicidal thoughts and depression, sensory overload

Wilbur left life with a bang, explosions and a larger-than-life show, just the way he wanted.

He came back entirely unceremoniously, with a gasp and the jolt of returning life, just like he dreaded.

He sat bolt upright, off the cold, hard ground of the shrine he’d been resurrected on, gasping for breath like a fish cruelly dragged out of its home by a line and hook. His head pounded with a pain comparable to that of the wound in his chest he could feel still sluggishly bleeding. Oh - sitting up so abruptly probably hadn’t helped with that.

His vision blurred. There was just _so much_ \- how had he ever dealt with it in life? Colors and shapes and movement assaulted him at every second, and he closed his eyes simply so he wouldn’t die again.

Immediately, his headache lessened. Not gone, but no longer splitting his head in half. Now, without the constant sensory input of vision, he could focus on his other senses.

The ground was cool and smooth under his hand, like polished stone. His shirt clung uncomfortably to his skin; it was as if he could feel each individual fiber rubbing up against him.

The air was acrid with the stench of gunpowder and what he would describe as... cold decay. Like a mixture of spearmint and rot. If his memory served, that meant a wither had been through here recently, corrupting every living thing it touched. Good. Techno had gone through with the plan - or wait, he’d been in the afterlife too long for the smell to still linger if it was from those withers.

He immediately dropped that train of thought. It hurt too much to think.

It wasn’t quite what he’d describe as eerily quiet, but nearly so. Birds still chirped, a few cows moo’ed faintly in the distance, the wind still rustled through leaves, just... less than before. But maybe he was remembering wrong. It had been an awful long time since he’d listened, after all.

“Wil?” a familiar voice asked, concerned. It was too loud, piercing through the other sounds that suddenly seemed so quiet in comparison and making him wince. And yet It felt like home, and his heart ached. “Wil, do you hear me?”

He groaned, too tired to try and speak, and his father sighed in relief.

“Here, drink this,” he said, and Wilbur felt a cold bottle being pushed to his lips. He decided to blindly trust in someone for once - what was the worst that could happen, he died again? hah, he wished - and drank a sip.

It was sweet, sickeningly so, and Wilbur almost gagged. A health potion, if he remembered the taste correctly. Like rotting fruit and candy washed down in a fizz of fire. Despite founding a country off of potion-brewing, he’d never really partaken in them for himself. There was always someone who needed them more, some money to make off of them.

Now, however, he just let himself drink, and felt his headache fade and the skin on his chest knit itself back together. When he no longer felt like he would pass out, he hesitantly reopened his eyes.

His brain was immediately assaulted by another barrage of sight, but he kept his eyes open. He’d have to adjust eventually. Might as well bite the bullet now.

In the afterlife, everything was muted. Colors, sounds, smells. Hell, touch just... wasn’t a thing. So now, everything looked and felt that much _more_ to him. Even the grey wall to his left was brightly toned.

He was sitting on a rich indigo floor, surrounded by rough stone walls. The sky was barely visible past them, pale blues fading into vibrant reds and pinks as the sun set. In front of him crouched a man dressed in deep forest greens, wearing a white-and-green-striped bucket hat that Wilbur had loved to play with as a child. 

Phil didn’t age, but he looked more... worn, than the last time Wilbur had seen him. Spread thin. And his wings, his beautiful wings that Wilbur had always admired, were torn and shredded. 

No longer were they a glossy black, almost iridescent with all the colors of the rainbow, but a matte dark grey. They hung limply behind him instead of constantly twitching and fiddling with Phil’s every emotion. Wilbur didn’t remember much between pressing the button and the relief of dying, but he could faintly recall being embraced by shattered wings as he took his last shuddering breaths. Wings that had been perfectly intact when Phil arrived in the button room. 

Yet another thing that was his fault, it seemed.

Despite all this wear and tear, Phil’s entire face lit up with joy at seeing his son alive and functioning and he seemed to lose ten years in an instant.

“Oh, Wil,” his father said, and he was pulled into a hug. Wilbur closed his eyes and leaned into it, clutching onto his shirt. It felt good and overwhelming all at once.

After what could have been a minute or an eternity, Phil pulled away. Wilbur didn’t know if he was disappointed or not. His skin felt like it was burning where they had made contact.

His father looked him in the eyes, seemingly studying him, and he must have been content with what he found for he burst into a wide grin and said “I’m so happy you’re back.”

Wilbur didn’t answer. His head still felt like it was stuffed with cotton and the experience of _touching someone_ for the first time in who knows how long had left him reeling.

“Wil?” Phil said, prompting, and oh - he should probably say something, shouldn’t he?

“Wh-” He croaked out, dry throat refusing to form the words, and he licked his chapped lips. With an “oh, shit, sorry mate” Phil passed him a bottle of water, which he quickly uncapped with shaking hands. It felt like the nectar of the Gods in his mouth, pure and cool.

Once he’d drained the entire bottle and set it aside, Wilbur decided to try speaking again. “How - how am I here?” His voice was still hoarse and crackly, but Phil smiled as if it was the best thing he’d ever heard.

“You have no idea how good it is to hear that, kiddo,” he said.

“Answer the question, _Phil_ ,” Wilbur pressured. He didn’t have time or energy for this. He was apparently alive again - despite making it abundantly clear he wanted it any other way - and he needed to figure out how to fix that problem.

But instead of Phil, another voice answered. One that sent a jolt of adrenaline through his body, that made his back ache with the phantom pain of a blade through it and sent his thoughts spiraling into panicked nothingness.

“We brought you back to life,” Eret said. And yeah, thanks. He’d already figured that out, genius. But now he apparently had bigger problems than figuring out just how they’d done that because Phil had decided to work with _the traitor_ to bring him back.

“What are _they_ doing here?” he snarled, decidedly not looking over despite his body screaming to never take his eyes off them lest he end up with another sword in his back. Instead, he kept his eyes on Phil.

“Eret did a lot of research on how to bring you back. They asked to be here today as backup in case something went wrong,” his father said.

“Oh, like what? Me going crazy and deciding that I’ve had enough of this shit?” Wilbur was pissed. He’d mostly said that as a snarky comment, but the way Phil hesitated before answering had his blood boiling.

“...No, Wilbur,” he said, supposedly soothing. It didn’t work. “In case we awoke something dark, a God or something. This hasn’t been done in millennia. Resurrection is a forbidden art for a reason.” And just like that, all the anger in Wilbur left. Why had they taken such a big risk just to get him back? He definitely wasn’t worth it.

He looked down at his hands resting on his lap, scarred and calloused and burnt, and just felt tired. His energy had sapped away with his anger, leaving him empty and drained.

“Can we go home?” he rasped out, pitiful and weak, and avoided Phil’s gaze. His father spoke after a second.

“Yeah, okay.” He paused, looked over at the traitor and back to Wilbur. “I live up North with Techno and Ranboo - do you remember Ranboo?” Wilbur thought for a second. It was fuzzy, but yes, the name did ring a bell. He nodded.

“Oh, good. Anyways, it’s pretty far away, probably too far for you to walk, today,” Phil continued, and Wilbur scowled, ready to protest. He was tired, not useless. “So Eret offered to take you in,” Phil finished, gesturing at the traitor. They simply dipped their head respectfully.

“No,” Wilbur croaked out. “I can walk.” He stumbled to his feet, immediately losing his balance. Phil caught his arm and steadied him.

“Wil, it-”

“No,” he interrupted, trying to rip his arm out of his father’s grasp. Phil held on strong.

“Wil, you can barely stand,” he admonished, and Wilbur stayed quiet. He wasn’t in the mood to argue over stupid shit, but Phil took this as a cue to keep talking. “They’ve been a big help in getting you back, you know,” he said sternly, and Wilbur’s anger came rushing back.

“No thanks,” he snarked, rage blooming in his chest. “I never asked for it.”

Phil sucked in a sharp breath through his teeth, and Wilbur's anger turned vindictive. Good. Let him know of his suffering.

“Eret,” Phil said quietly, “can you leave us alone for a few minutes, please?”

The traitor just nodded, saying “of course. I’ll be at the castle if you need me.” They met Wilbur’s eyes through their sunglasses, or at least so he assumed, and spoke directly to him, and only him, for the first time since their betrayal. “You’re always welcome in my court. Just know that,” they said, and Wilbur scoffed. As if he’d want to be anywhere near them.

Eret bowed their head and turned around, walking away from the shrine. After a few steps, they paused and added, “I’m glad you’re back.” They kept walking without waiting for a response.

Phil watched them go and Wilbur waited silently. His father turned back to him, grabbing his other arm and holding him in front of him. Wilbur made eye contact, challenging, and Phil just sighed.

“Let’s sit down,” he said, and Wilbur obliged. Only when he actually did, dragging in his legs to sit cross-legged, did he realize how strained they were from simply standing. Fuck this.

Phil mirrored his position across from him, arranging his torn and ragged wings into a more comfortable position. Phil had sacrificed those wings for him, and Wilbur wondered if he thought it was a worthwhile trade. _He_ definitely disagreed.

Phil stopped shifting around, evidently comfortable, and Wilbur redirected his attention from the fallen angel’s wings. His father was staring at him, studying him.

“So,” he started after a long silence, and _fuck_ did Wilbur not want to have this conversation, “I guess I should’ve come sooner, huh?”

“Yeah, no shit.”

“What happened, Wil?” His father sounded so concerned, and Wilbur just felt pissed off. He knew very well what had happened, and maybe he should’ve actually _been_ here if he cared so damn much.

“Did nobody tell you? You’ve been here, what, months?”

“No, no, I,” he sighed, “I meant - what happened to you? You used to be so...” he waved his hand around, at a loss for words, “happy.”

”Eret happened,” Wilbur snapped, “Schlatt happened, my entire goddamn country turning on me happened. Which you would know damn well had you bothered to come visit.”

“How was I supposed to know?” Phil raised his voice and his wings, splaying them wide. Now he was upset, too. Wilbur sure seemed to bring out the worse in everyone. “Everything seemed fine! You were having fun with your friends, you won your war! Then one day you just stopped sending me letters! If I hadn’t decided to come check in, I would’ve never known what happened!”

Wilbur opened his mouth to retort, but Phil wasn’t finished. “You’re a grown man, Wil,” he said. “I assumed you’d be okay on your own. Clearly I was wrong, but you can’t rely on me to be here for you if you don’t reach out.” His voice softened. “I want to help you, I do. But I can’t if I don’t know what’s wrong.”

Wilbur looked down at that. He felt like he was eight again, slashing at a tree in the woods out back. He’d stolen one of Phil’s stone swords from the shed and snuck out to practice, even though he was _technically_ supposed to be cleaning his room. He had to train if he wanted to one day beat Technoblade, after all.

But while running back home he’d slipped and fallen on something or another, dropping the sword as he fell. It had sliced his upper arm, sending crimson blood gushing. He’d simply stared at it, stunned for a few moments before bursting into tears. It was the worst wound he’d ever gotten, at that point. He’d dragged himself back home, hand over the wound, desperately trying to stifle his tears as he entered the house.

Phil had immediately noticed something was wrong, of course. He’d cornered a sniffling Wilbur who refused to tell him anything, knowing he’d get in trouble for sneaking out - with a weapon, no less. Phil had just sighed and said those exact words: “I want to help you. But I can’t if I don’t know what’s wrong.” And Wilbur had delicately peeled his hand away from the wound, confessing his wrongdoings in between sobs.

Phil had simply bandaged his arm and grounded him for a few days with some extra chores, locked the weapons more securely in the shed. The wound scarred, it was just large enough for that, and young Wilbur loved it. He thought it made him look badass.

But now he was 24 and his mistakes had much more dire stakes than a simple injured shoulder.

“I don’t think you can help,” he all but whispered.

“I-”

“I caused so much pain, Phil!” he yelled, “so much. All this is my fault. It had to be gone, I had to take it away but they didn’t get it, they didn’t understand.” He took a deep breath.

“I’m not a good person, Phil,” he confessed.

“Oh, Wil, you are!” Phil insisted, grabbing his hands. “Trust me, you’re an amazing person-”

“No, don’t you get it!” Wilbur screamed, tearing his hands out of his father’s grip. “I can’t trust anymore, I can’t trust anyone anymore! All they’ve done is lie and betray me - me and Tommy,” he gasped out, chest heaving. Phil just looked at him sadly. 

“I can’t trust anyone, that’s - that’s the problem,” he finished, burying his head in his hands.

Phil was silent for a few seconds. When he spoke, it was hesitant and unsure.

“Do you want to?” he asked, and Wilbur couldn’t say he knew for sure. He leaned back on his hands and raised his head to look at the darkening sky up above.

He couldn’t remember the last time he’d put all his confidence in someone. It was for sure before the war, before the betrayal - maybe long before. But he had to imagine it would feel nice, being able to sleep without watching his back and eat without double-checking his food.

(He’d have to do those things - that being sleeping and eating - now, he supposed. Phil’d be upset if he died again, and... maybe he wanted to live, just a little bit. He hadn’t realized it, but he’d missed cool water running down his throat and the color of the sunset and the feeling of warm hugs.)

“Yeah, I - I think,” he said shakily, and suddenly he was holding back tears. “I don’t want to be like this anymore. How do I not be like this anymore?”

Phil’s eyes softened and he leaned in for another hug. Wilbur let him, pushing into the warmth, and oh, he was crying now. Great.

His father just held him tightly and rubbed circles into his back, evidently ignoring the growing wet patch on his shoulder as Wilbur’s chest heaved with sobs. It felt good - it felt like home, being comforted by his father, just like that day 16 long years ago. The last time he’d felt this warm, he was dying.

All too soon, his tears dried up and the moment was over. They lingered in the embrace for a few moments longer before pulling apart, Wilbur wiping any remaining traces of tears away from his eyes. If he saw Phil do the same, well, that wasn’t any of his business.

“Wil,” Phil said, determined, once they’d both composed themselves, “everybody wants you to get better. If you’re willing to try. But,” he punctuated, “you have to _try_.”

Wilbur paused at that. Try, huh.

Every one of his deaths had changed him. The first, sending him reeling with a friend’s betrayal, forcing him to put up countless walls. The second, sending them crashing to the ground along with those of his country. The third, finally showing his pain to the world as he ended his greatest masterpiece.

And now, maybe Ghostbur’s death - his revival - could be a new beginning. A new him. Healing, instead of spiraling further into suffering and destruction. Because he _wanted_ to get better. He knew that now.

Dying had been his idea of peace for so long, but it didn’t compare to life. And it hadn’t been nearly as peaceful as he’d hoped. It was... he couldn’t quite remember, anymore, but... he knew it wasn’t the freedom he had wanted.

“I don’t - I want to try, yes,” he said breathlessly, and for the first time since the election he felt hope. “But... I don’t know how.” Despair, his old companion, threatened to drown him again and he looked at Phil, trying to convey how much he was struggling to keep his head above water.

Phil sat there silently for a moment “I think,” he finally said, “I think the first step is forgiveness.”

Forgiveness, huh?

“Is that you fucking telling me to go stay at the castle?”

Phil grinned. “Maybe.” That fucker. “You look wiped, son.”

“Yeah, thanks,” Wilbur grumbled, “I feel it.” He sighed, and thought about it.

Forgiveness.

Something, in all his living years, he’d never thought he’d give - or receive. As President, it was too soon - all the wounds were too raw, still open and bleeding every time he caught a blade out of the corner of his eye or was in a too-dark room. In Pogtopia, he’d been spiraling, caught up in betrayal after betrayal as he tried to make sense of it all. He’d had to shelter himself behind walls of thorns and anger to keep himself from falling apart completely. Forgiveness and healing had been the farthest thing from his mind, back then.

But he’d found solace in death. Ghostbur, for all his lacking memories and avoidance of anything tragic, had forgiven every single person who’d wronged him. He claimed otherwise, with "we don't like Eret," and speaking badly about Dream around others, but he had simply been parroting empty words.

And although Ghostbur was not him and he was not Ghostbur - his memories of his time as the specter were much too fuzzy and faint for that, though they were still better than those of his own afterlife - he figured he could channel him. At least, enough to start the process of forgiveness.

But not for himself. Forgiving himself had been too daunting a task for even Ghostbur to do.

“Yeah,” Wilbur sighed out, “I can do that, I think.”

Phil beamed at him, all light and joy and _goodness_ , and said “good. I’m glad.”

But all that was a tomorrow problem. Right now, he could use a shower and a warm meal and a soft bed. He relayed as such to Phil, who just laughed.

He stumbled to his feet and Phil rushed to his side, ready to catch him if he fell. Wilbur scowled and batted him away. He was pleased to find he could stand by himself.

“Well, what are we waiting for?” he asked impatiently after he was sure he was steady.

“One second, let me gather my stuff,” Phil said, walking around the shrine and picking up random-looking odds and ends. Wilbur had no clue what they were. Probably some dark magic shit. He’d never dabbled in those arts beyond potion-brewing.

He shivered - sometime in the last minute the sun had sunk below the horizon, casting the hollow in the mountain into a dark chill. The white t-shirt he was wearing did little to keep out the cold, what with the large tear right down its middle.

“I need a new shirt,” he remarked, half to himself, half to the air around him, but Phil was listening.

“Oh - that reminds me,” he said, walking over to the pack laying on the ground a few feet away and starting to dig around in it, “I don’t have any clothes - you’ll have to ask Eret about that - but I do have this.”

Out he pulled Wilbur’s old trenchcoat from exile, holding it up with a grin on his face. It was still battered and beaten and worn, covered in patches and stains, but there was one new addition: a large brown patch on the back, right where he’d been stabbed through. Wilbur reached out and took it, cradling it in his hands like he would a newborn flame; both gentle and afraid to touch it.

Memories of exile flashed through his mind, days and nights spent pacing the ravine, curled up in a ball on the floor crying, screaming his throat raw when it got too much. All wearing this coat.

“Tommy left it at Techno’s place when he left.” Phil shrugged. “I figured he didn’t want it anymore. Patched it back up.”

The coat was torn and ragged just like him, and yet it had been fixed. Cleaned up with love and care. It wasn’t the same, was still ugly and messy, but-

He looked up at Phil, a smile (only slightly bitter) on his face, and said, “thanks.”

Maybe there was still some hope for him.

Phil smiled back, and said “now, let’s get you to Eret’s castle. It’s getting late and I need to be back at Techno’s before dark.” Wilbur felt a sudden pit of dread form in his stomach.

“You will - you will still visit, right?” he asked, nervous over the idea of losing his father again.

“Of course,” Phil said, putting a hand on his back, “if you’ll have me.” Wilbur closed his eyes and took a deep breath, steadying the pounding in his chest.

“Yeah,” he breathed out. ”Yeah, of course I will.”

And so they took off, father and newly reborn son, towards Eret’s castle. Wilbur’s new home. For the first time in a long while, he had hope for the future in his heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phil is trying his best and in this house we love him for it


	2. Eret

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you saw me say I'd post this yesterday no you didn't <3
> 
> (I got inspired and rewrote half their conversation also sorry for the double notif I fucked up the posting ok love y'all)
> 
> TWs for this chapter: Derealization (in the first half), self-deprecation, mentions of Wilbur willingly starving himself

Wilbur stood in front of the mirror in “his” room in Eret’s castle and tried to feel.

Since he’d been brought back yesterday, the chaos of emotions in his chest had faded, leaving him empty. Or muted, was perhaps a better way of putting it. Like the afterlife.

All precise memories of the afterlife had faded completely, leaving him with only vague impressions and what his ghostly counterpart remembered. It seemed like the afterlife wasn’t meant for mortal minds. Not that he was upset about it, or anything. There wasn’t much to remember from the afterlife - much worthwhile, at least. He knew that for certain.

And he’d inherited the entirety of Ghostbur’s memories, too, not just the ones that the specter had. (Ghostbur’s selective amnesia had been a coping mechanism. He still formed the memories, he just couldn’t access them most of the time. And the times he could, he desperately wished otherwise.

Wilbur, sadly, had no such luck, and so he was left with memories of every bad thing he’d let happen while dead, unable to go back and prevent them.)

Even with all these memories, though, he didn’t ever recall stepping foot in the castle he now stood in.

The room the traitor had given him was nice, he supposed. (He refused to call _them_ by their name, that was a different person, one with whom he’d shared drinks and laughter and tears - to him, that person had died the day they’d made a deal with the devil. The day they’d given up friendship for power.)

There was a bed along the wall, squished between the empty closet and a desk with a small lamp on it. Next to it sat a notepad and an inkwell and quill. There was a tiny adjoining bathroom, with all the necessary toiletries, and that was it.

It was quite bare, but what could he expect? It wasn’t like he’d left much behind; he’d never cared much for excessive decoration even in L’Manberg. The Camarvan hadn’t really been a home, more a place to stay, so there was no use in overdecorating it. And in Pogtopia, they hadn’t had anything except the bare necessities. Sometimes, not even that. Besides, he wouldn’t expect anyone to go scrounging around for any of his belongings just to make him feel slightly more comfortable.

He’d asked about clothes last night, while getting settled in his room. The traitor had looked him up and down, taking in his torn and bloodied shirt and fraying pants, and said they didn’t have any of Wilbur’s. But, they added, he could borrow some of theirs until he had the chance to go get some new ones. Wilbur had reluctantly agreed. It wasn’t like he had much of a choice.

He’d have to go to Pogtopia, see if he could find some of his old spares. All the clothes he’d left in L’Manberg when he’d been exiled had definitely been scavenged or destroyed, and he wasn’t really in the mood to go clothes shopping.

All this to say, he was staring into the mirror in the bathroom, trying desperately to connect himself to the scarred person wearing royal’s clothes staring back at him.

He hadn’t looked at his reflection since long before he’d died. Back in Pogtopia, he’d avoided it like the plague, since it only brought up the same empty feeling of disconnect and unfamiliarity he was feeling now.

But he was trying to heal, so he figured that included getting himself reacquainted with his new body. Especially since he was now stuck in it for an unknown amount of time, no longer waiting for the release of death.

The bags under his eyes were the same as when he’d been President, if not a bit more pronounced. His eyes held the same bone-deep weariness, too - only with an underlying glint of fire and explosions and mania that he definitely didn’t feel right now. He supposed it was lying in wait, ready to resurface and destroy everything as soon as he had the energy to do more than simply exist.

His reflection’s hair flopped over his eyes, half-covering them like it always did. It had been Hell to brush out yesterday, tangled and matted from the last few months of his life, when he hadn’t exactly had the best hair-care routine. Now though, it was nice and fluffy. It looked good - but not his.

He’d shown signs of early graying, stress and bad genetics conspiring to screw him over, but now his bangs were streaked through with white in a thoroughly unnatural manner.

Of course, it was the one spot he couldn’t cover with a beanie and ignore, the one bit of his hair people actually saw. A reminder from the Sky Gods that he’d died and had been resurrected in an act of defiance against their machinations, no doubt. 

He ran a hand through it, watching the white strands fall through his fingers. When he dropped his hand, he let his eyes linger on it, turning it around as he studied it.

It was calloused, no longer from holding pens and guitars, but from heavy manual labor and mistreatment. It was covered in small scars, scratches he’d never bothered - or had the materials - to fix.

Burns littered his fingertips from letting matches burn down a little too far, and they felt slightly numb when he pressed them together. His fingernails were caked with blue-tinged soot that simply wouldn’t wash out, no matter how hard he’d scrubbed the night before in the shower.

The rest of his body was littered with scars, too, he knew. He’d been surprised to see just how many there were. Countless small mars from who knows what. (He hadn’t really checked himself for injuries in Pogtopia, not unless they were greatly inconvenient.)

The most striking was the large slice down his stomach, which he lifted up his shirt to re-examine. It was fresh - he faintly remembered it bleeding, yesterday, before Phil had fed him that health potion - pale pink and still raw. Death scars never faded, no matter how much magic was applied to them.

He let his shirt fall back down with a gulp. He felt sick. That scar would remain forever, along with the arrow wound on his shoulder blade and the matching stab wound in the center of his back. A perfect pair, his first and last deaths were.

Wilbur dragged his eyes back up to meet his reflection’s. The longer he studied it, the less it felt like himself. He hesitantly jerked up an arm to brush away his bangs - it felt slow to respond, almost disconnected from him - and his mirror image copied the action perfectly. He just stared at it, trying to make sense of anything.

“Who are you?” Wilbur breathed out, making eye contact with the man in the mirror. His reflection just mouthed the same question back at him.

Wilbur squeezed his eyes shut, burying his head in his hands and resting his elbows on the counter. He breathed in deeply, trying to quell the floating feeling that was dragging him away, and he growled, digging his fingernails into his scalp. The pain was nice, grounding.

A knock sounded on the door, and he jolted upright, heart leaping in his throat. A voice that reminded him of pain and betrayal and iron blades called out “Wilbur? I’m coming in,” and suddenly he was back in his body. Adrenaline spiked through his veins. His heart felt like it was going to pound out of his chest.

He bolted out of the bathroom, not even hearing the door creak open over the sound of blood rushing in his ears. He found himself face-to-face with the traitor and immediately took an instinctive step back, hand reaching for a non-existent sword at his side but closing on empty air.

The traitor froze and raised their hands to prove they meant no harm. The two stood face to face a few moments, Wilbur’s chest heaving. 

“I was just bringing supper,” they said cautiously, showing the plate they held in one hand, “I figured you’d be hungry, you haven’t left your room all day.”

Wilbur didn’t respond, just tried to force himself to relax despite his body screaming that he had to _run_. He let his hand fall limp to his side, never taking his eyes off the traitor.

When he didn’t say or do anything else, they slowly took a step forward. They made their way to the desk, keeping their eyes on him and their hands raised, and gently set the plate down on it.

Wilbur would normally be upset over the caution, the way he was being treated like a feral animal that could bite at any moment, but he was too on edge to do anything but appreciate it. He let his eyes linger on the traitor before glancing back to the plate. Steak and potatoes. He felt sick, again, nausea worming its way back into his throat, killing any hunger he might’ve once felt.

Back in Pogtopia, the only consistent food was potatoes. They tried to supplement best as they could with frequent expeditions, but when they couldn’t get out to hunt or smuggle anything in from L’Manberg - which was often - potatoes were what they ate.

At first, Tubbo and Niki tried to keep them well-nourished, bringing them bread and cheese and, on one notable occasion, a batch of freshly-baked cookies. But as their position grew increasingly risky, the deliveries slowed to nothing.

After the Festival, the mouths to feed in Pogtopia only grew and available food dwindled with the oncoming winter. So Wilbur would often pass on meals, claiming he wasn’t hungry. There was no use wasting food on a dead man walking, after all, and he didn’t mind the gnawing in his stomach. He barely felt it, and it was better than his brain screaming that he might be eating poison whenever he took a bite.

Despite all this, Wilbur could remember the bland taste of potatoes, their grainy texture as he choked them down, all too well. He didn’t think he could ever forget.

But instead of voicing any of this, he just looked back to the traitor and choked out an “I’m not hungry.” He swallowed, trying to get rid of the ball in his throat. It didn’t work.

They raised an eyebrow but thankfully didn’t say anything about it. Instead, they took a deep breath and said “can we talk? I... I think we have a lot to discuss.”

Wilbur took a deep breath in turn and nodded, not trusting himself to speak. He went to take a seat on the side of the bed, suddenly feeling dizzy. His heart was still pounding, he felt nauseous and on edge. And, worst of all, the floaty feeling from before was coming back.

He sat down on the side of the bed facing the door and the traitor turned the chair at the desk to face him in turn. They leaned their elbows on their knees and rested their head in their hands. It was a scene strangely reminiscent of a time before the betrayal.

Back during the war, Eret was his rock. He’d leaned on them for support, whenever the stress got to him and he felt as bad as he did now. The boys were all too young and looked up to him too much to let them see his emotional turmoil. But Eret was always there.

He remembered many a late night, after Tommy, Tubbo, and Fundy had been sent off to bed, where they’d sit on the floor of the Camarvan, no longer a soldier and his general, but two friends. And Wilbur would let himself fall apart in a way he never could in the light of day, Eret murmuring comforting words until he could pull himself back together.

After they had left the rebellion, tearing everything apart in their wake, he’d shut himself off. They’d used his anxieties, his insecurities, against them all. That was probably what hurt the most. Not the deaths - although the pain of knowing he was responsible for his men’s lost lives was unfathomable - but the rupture of trust.

Wilbur knew he couldn’t open up to anyone anymore, lest he risk the same thing happen. So he bottled everything up, only letting himself truly feel when he was alone. _Never again_ , he told himself, like a motto. That is, until he snapped. Then that motto got twisted to be about trust.

And now, here they were, one of them a King and the other a failed President, face to face once more. 

The King looked up, sunglasses obscuring their emotions, and spoke. “How are you feeling? Settling in well?” they asked. Wilbur shrugged.

“Alright, I guess,” he answered, proud that he kept his voice steady.

“That’s good, that’s good...” Their voice trailed away. “It’s nice having someone else here, you know. Ever since H left, it’s been quiet.”

“Mm,” Wilbur hummed. This type of conversation, he could manage. He’d navigated countless discussions rife with small talk as President. It was a familiar song, almost soothing in its banality. Despite this, his body still hummed with a restless energy. “Why _did_ everybody leave, anyways?”

“Well,” the King sighed, “we got a large influx of refugees after L’Manberg... was destroyed...” Their voice trailed away, evidently unwilling to voice what had happened. Wilbur felt a twinge of bitterness. How _dare_ they feel bad over _his_ country falling. The traitor sat bolt upright, realizing something. “Wait, you don’t remember that, do you?”

Wilbur shrugged. “No, I do. Got Ghostbur’s memories - all of them, for some reason. I dunno.”

“Huh. Weird.” They sat there, pondering it for a few seconds before deciding to move on. “Well, anyways, it’s been a while since that happened, and most of the refugees have moved on or settled down in their own homes. It was nice and busy for a while, there, but now it’s just... empty.” They drooped, losing the Kingly posture for a moment before recomposing themselves.

“I...” The traitor started. They took a deep breath before continuing. “I have an apology to make.” They reached a hand up and took off their sunglasses.

Eret met Wilbur’s gaze with empty, milky white eyes, and he had to fight off the urge to look or shy away. There was just something so... unnatural. Disturbing, even, about them.

This was a gesture of trust, he knew. They never removed their shades, too used to adverse reactions. The one time they had, back in L’Manberg, everybody had immediately started squirming and they had quickly apologized, putting them back on.

But Wilbur could remember one other time, when only he’d been around. The one time Eret broke down in front of him. 

_He walked into the Camarvan after a late night patrol; Dream and his lackeys were getting much more aggressive and they couldn’t afford to let their guard down.  
_

_Normally he and Eret would sit together in the main room, maybe in comfortable silence, maybe discussing plans in a low murmur so as not to wake the sleeping boys, but today he entered to the sound of sobbing._

_Eret was curled in a ball on the floor, shoulders shaking with hiccuping sobs. They had their arms wrapped around their knees and their sunglasses sat on the floor by their side.  
_

_“Fuck, Eret, are you okay?” he asked, rushing to their side._

_“Yeah, yeah, just... fuck,” they said, wiping away their tears with their sleeve. They looked up at Wilbur with their blank, empty eyes, and Wilbur couldn’t help but flinch back. Those eyes widened in realization. “Shit, sorry,” they said, reaching for the sunglasses by their side._

_Wilbur stopped them with a hand on their arm. “No, no, s’ok, man. Sorry for reacting like that,” he reassured, and they leaned back against the wall with a deep sigh._

_Wilbur sat down next to them. “What’s wrong?” To tell the truth, he was worried. Eret was normally so put-together. To see them crying on the floor was... unsettling._

_“Do you ever,” their voice trailed off as they stared at the opposing wall. “Do you ever wonder if we’re doing the right thing? I mean, we’re bringing the kids to war. A war that we can’t win.”_

_“I - I think we are,” Wilbur started uncertainly, but then his resolve strengthened as he thought of why they were fighting. “Yeah, we are. We’re creating a better future for them, and for others. We can’t give up. This has become about more than just us. And who says we won’t win? We’ve spent weeks planning this, gathering materials.”_

_“So has Dream,” they answered solemnly._

_“Well,” Wilbur ran a hand through his hair, “I think we have to try, regardless. We’re in too deep to turn back, now. We either fight, and win, or Dream slaughters us all until we’re dead for good - all three of our lives.”_

_Eret paused at that. “What if,” they started slowly, “there’s another option?”_

_“What?”_

_They turned to look at him. “What if there was a way to make him go easier on y- on us?”  
_

_“I need more details.”  
_

_“I can’t say any more, I’m sorry.”  
_

_“I - I don’t know. I can’t help you without knowing what I’m helping you with. But,” he said, putting a hand on their shoulder. “I do trust you, and I trust your judgement when it comes to our country. So do what you think is best.”  
_

_“Thanks, Wilbur,” they said, putting on their sunglasses and standing up._

_“Where are you going?” he asked._

_“Out. On patrol,” they answered. Wilbur understood; he’d gone on many walks himself in the past to soothe his nerves and help him think. The door closed behind them with a small click, and they were gone.  
_

That was the last heart-to-heart conversation they’d ever had.

Two days later, Eret led the rebellion into a small blackstone room. Two days later, all of them had their first meeting with Death. Two days later, Wilbur shattered and never quite could pick the pieces back up.

Now, many, many months later, Eret looked Wilbur in the eyes and apologized.

”I’m sorry,” they said, “for betraying your trust. For killing you all. I never meant to hurt you so badly.”

“Oh, really?” Wilbur snapped, “who would’ve thought that Dream wouldn’t have any mercy on us? Did you not think he would slaughter us in cold blood the second he got the chance? Or were you too blinded by your want for power?”

“It was never about the power,” they answered, voice calm through years of practice in politics, “I thought the rebellion was a lost cause. I thought if I could get you to see how hopeless it was, you would give up with minimal damage.”

“Minimal damage,” Wilbur scoffed. “We fucking lost lives, Eret! I trusted you with my secrets, and you used them against me! Against us! You should’ve known,” he calmed down, voice eerily calm, “you should’ve known we would stop at nothing. L’Manberg was everything to me, back then. Everything to us. How could you expect us to just give up?”

“I don’t know,” they said simply. “I really don’t, Wilbur. I just,” they buried their head in their hands, and when they looked back up they had determination on their face. “Dream told me he would go easier on you all, would allow you to surrender peacefully, if I joined him. I saw it as a way out of the grave we were digging ourselves. We weren’t doing well, Wilbur, you know that better than anyone. It was a lost cause.”

Wilbur was quiet for a few seconds. “I was the first to give up on it, you know.”

“What?”

“You heard me. I was ready to surrender, after you stabbed us in the back. Tommy’s the one who convinced me to keep going. I shouldn’t have listened,” he sighed. “You were right all along. It was never meant to be.”

“I don’t know about that,” Eret said, putting their sunglasses back on. “Look at all the good that came from it, all the happy moments.”

“And, look at all the pain it caused, too.”

“You can’t always look at the negatives, Wilbur. That’s something I’ve learned. It’s not all about the end, it’s about the journey.”

Wilbur snorted. “Yeah, sure.” They fell into silence, neither knowing where to go from here.

“I think you won, in the end,” Wilbur finally said.

“Did I?” Eret questioned, “as I said, most of my people left me. I have no friends. My power is virtually non-existent, Hell, I was just a puppet ruler until a few weeks ago,” they listed off, and Wilbur wanted to laugh. That was nothing.

“Yeah, well, I was exiled by a tyrannical leader, I’m depressed, probably still off my rocker. L’Manberg - the one thing I had going for me - is gone for good,” Wilbur said. “Actually, I shouldn’t even say that. Everybody hates me, and with good reason - I was the worst President and even worse when I wasn’t it.”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa!” Eret interrupted his self-deprecating spiral. “Nobody thinks that - nobody hates you!”

“What do you mean!” Wilbur exclaimed. “Of course they fucking hate me! They voted me out, didn’t they? They actually _liked_ Schlatt.” Old bitterness rose in his throat at the thoughts of liars and traitors resurfacing.

“Wilbur. You weren’t a bad President,” Eret said sternly, determination in their eyes. “Hell, you’re my biggest inspiration! I try and rule like you did - and I can’t even come close.” Wilbur just stared, mouth open.

“Why?” he finally managed to choke out. “Why the Hell would you look up to _me_?”

“You were fair, and just, and tried your best for the people,” Eret smiled gently at him. “You’re the best kind of leader - one that listens and cares.”

Wilbur couldn’t believe them. Yeah, he’d tried so damn hard to manage everyone, keep the peace, get the best for L’Manberg. But it hadn’t been enough - not even remotely. Everybody still distrusted him, his power. They’d voted him out, after all. 

“Suppose you’re right,” he started, giving Eret the benefit of the doubt. He wasn’t quite ready to argue that point, to voice that paranoia in front of the person who’d probably been its catalyst. “Even then, I destroyed it all.”

“You were in the middle of a breakdown. It’s not excusable, but understandable. Are they upset? Yes. But they don’t hate you”

“Well they should,” he snapped, then realized something. The paranoia still invading his head was good for something, after all. ‘If you’re even telling the truth. How would you know?”

“I can’t speak for everybody, but,” Eret paused, “I know for a fact that Fundy still cares.” Wilbur felt like he was about to cry.

“What?” His voice cracked.

“He talks about you, all the good times you spent together, all the time. He really misses you,” Eret said. They thought for a moment, then added, “you should go see him. I’m sure he’d be overjoyed you’re back.”

“I-” Wilbur started, then cut himself off. Where did he start? “I don’t know. Maybe.” Was that a lie? He didn’t know. He really wanted to see his son, but... they hadn’t exactly parted on the best terms.

Eret smiled patiently. “Just let me know when. I’ll let him know.”

“Thank you,” Wilbur answered sincerely - and that reminded him: “Thanks for trying to adopt him.”

“Of course. He deserves people who care about him,” they said.

“Yeah, he does,” Wilbur breathed out. “He really does.”

There was quiet for a few minutes, both lost in thoughts of the past. Wilbur honestly couldn’t believe he was doing this, sitting companionably with the one who’d first taken it all from him. But times had changed, and everyone else had forgiven Eret, hadn’t they?

Niki was always their friend. So was Tubbo. Fundy had tried to make them his father. Tommy had been the only one to hate them by the election, and even that had probably changed by now. 

And while that was cause for alarm in the past, his brain screaming at him that they didn’t care, that they were also all traitors, maybe now he could take it as a sign that he should move on.

“Again, I really am sorry for everything,” Eret broke into his thoughts, dredging up uncomfortable memories, and part of Wilbur wanted to yell at them again. But he was trying to be better, so instead he said,

“You really fucked me up, you know.”

“Yeah...” Eret, to their credit, sounded regretful. “Yeah, I know, and I know I can probably never make up for it, but... I’d like to try.” They smiled faintly.

And that was the crux of the matter, wasn’t it? They were willing to be better, they wanted to help. But Wilbur didn’t know if he could let them. He wanted to, honest, but he couldn’t. Not when them saying the wrong combination of words brought him back to a cramped blackstone room.

“I...” he started, “I think I want to be friends again. Eventually. I just... can’t, yet.”

Eret smiled. “I completely understand. Let me know when you’re ready.” 

Wilbur nodded and smiled back, a weight he hadn’t even known taken off his chest. His son didn’t hate him and neither did anyone else, apparently - although that was to be determined. And he had his old friend back, when he was ready for them.

“Well, I should probably get going,” Eret said, standing up, “there’s a lot of work to do, being King. I’m sure you understand.”

Wilbur nodded. Yes, he knew very well the work that came with leading an entire nation of people.

Eret pushed in the chair back under the desk and turned to him. “If you need anything, though, just give a shout, ok?” they said.

“Yeah, will do,” Wilbur answered, and they smiled at that.

“Good.” They stuck out their hand, clearly waiting for a handshake.

Wilbur just stared at it for a few seconds. Then, he stood up and hesitantly offered his hand in turn.

Eret took it. They had a firm grip, authoritative but not tight enough it hurt. They shook, once, twice, and Wilbur quickly dropped it. His gaze lingered on their face, though, as he studied it, trying to tell what they were thinking.

They had a faint smile on, and it was hard to determine their true intentions with their sunglasses, but it seemed genuine. Then, the moment was over.

“I really am happy you’re back,” Eret said.

“Thanks.”

“You take care of yourself, okay?” they said with a final glance at the cooling plate of steak and potatoes on Wilbur’s desk before turning to leave the room.

“Actually, Eret?” Wilbur asked, hesitant. He hated showing weakness like this, but... he really was hungry. And Eret seemed to genuinely have good intentions, once again.

Maybe their voice still had him feeling scattered and anxious, maybe he would never fully trust them again, but he could be near them again. He could sit and chat and tell that they really, truly had good in them.

“Can you - can you show me where the kitchen is? I think I’d rather prepare my own meal.”

Eret smiled, beaming at the idea that Wilbur would open up to them in that way, and said “of course! Right this way.”

And so Wilbur followed Eret out, shutting the door to his new room behind him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wilbur has a lot of trauma surrounding Eret and I didn’t want to undersell it, but I do feel that their redemption is very important to Wilbur’s healing and I love their personal arc.
> 
> I got the idea that Wilbur leaned on them for emotional support pre-betrayal since they were the only two adults in the revolution from a Tumblr post that I cannot, for the life of me, find again.


	3. Fundy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry Fundy fans for taking over 2k words to even get to him I just love Pogtopia so much
> 
> No real TWs for this chapter that I can think of, other than a quick mention of sleep-deprivation

Wilbur was on a mission.

He walked rapidly down a path he’d tread countless times, but never really payed attention to before. The midday sun blazed onto the ground around him, warm enough that he barely felt the chill of the winter air. Dry branches clacked in the slight breeze, but luckily his jacket mostly blocked it out. Off in the distance, a squirrel chittered angrily at the intruder on its lands.

It really was beautiful here. Too bad he’d always been too distracted whenever he passed through, whether it be fleeing an enemy or his own madness, to notice.

He cursed as a branch he’d been pushing out of the way snapped back and smacked his face. He rubbed at the sore spot, scowling. Maybe it wasn’t so beautiful after all, stupid tree.

Where a trail had once been trampled down was now overgrown with tall grass and briar and branches. Nature had reclaimed its own. It was clear that nobody had been to Pogtopia in a long time.

Wilbur could make out the faint blue of the unfrozen river through the branches. He was close, then. The river only briefly neared the path before they parted ways yet again.

And then, pushing one final spruce branch out of the way, an all-too familiar cliff came into view. Wilbur froze, memories rushing back. He gingerly stepped into the clearing, the forest rustling as it sealed itself away behind him.

His footsteps half-crunched on soggy leaves, the only sound in the woods for miles. It was as if the universe itself had frozen in time as he walked towards the place where he had lost his mind; Wilbur Soot’s true final resting place.

Although, he supposed, it wasn’t really anymore. He was back alive and in (mostly) sound mind. He still had off-days, times when his brain told him he was irredeemable and to not care, but most of the time he was able to push it down.

Today was one of the good days.

He passed the pit where Techno’s horse had stayed, camouflaged by bracken. It was now broken away - clearly whoever had taken the horse hadn’t cared anymore whether people knew of the hiding spot.

And Wilbur stopped in front of the camouflaged door, covered in dirt, moss, and roots. He remembered making it, those first few desperate nights with Tommy. Bickering over what looked most natural, how to properly disguise it. Back before they’d found the ravine itself, their only shelter the small dirt dugout.

He reached out and grabbed the hidden handle, a root solidly attached on both ends, and pulled. The door swung open, sending a beam of light illuminating the dark interior. Wilbur stepped into the doorway, casting the room back into shadow.

He stepped further in, leaving the door open. A layer of dust coated everything, but it was otherwise the same as he’d left it. A crafting table, a few furnaces, a couple chests - probably looted by now, he assumed - and a simple rickety bed in the corner. Someone had taken the enderchest.

The spiral staircase descending into the ravine quickly faded into darkness, and only now did Wilbur realize how woefully unprepared he was for this. The lanterns down there were surely extinguished, if it was in the same state of abandonment as up here. 

“Shit,” he bit out. He strode over to the chests, swinging one open and waving away the cloud of dust that flew up. Nothing but a bag of seeds and a few clumps of dirt. He moved onto the next, and the next, rifling through piles of stone and other useless junk until he, by some miracle, stumbled upon what he was looking for.

Buried under some diorite - who the fuck kept diorite - was an old, rusty lantern and a few chunks of coal. He pulled both out and stuck some coal in the lantern, placing the rest in the satchel he’d brought along. He pulled out the lighter that had sat in his pocket ever since the exile and flicked it, holding the flickering flame to the coal until it caught. He swung the little door on the lantern shut, stuck the lighter back in his pocket, and stood up. He was ready to go.

Wilbur walked to the back of the room, lantern in hand, and paused at the top of the steps. The opening stared back at him like a gaping maw. It seemed to radiate cold, like Pogtopia always did, sucking all the warmth out of any creature unfortunate enough to step foot within its walls.

He shivered, wrapped his jacket tighter around himself with his free hand, and stepped in.

Wilbur descended the stairs cautiously, ghosting his hand along the wall. He was hit with the vivid memory of doing this exact same thing countless times before, back in a time when madness stained his mind and everything sent him giggling with a manic ecstasy. He almost missed that empty joy, compared to the void of trepidation in his chest now. Almost.

Wilbur paused at the bottom of the spiral staircase as Pogtopia proper unfolded itself into view. His chest clenched. So many memories... mostly bad, if he was being honest with himself. But there were kernels of good in there. Joking around with Techno, Tommy getting trapped in the pistons...

It was just as he remembered it, too. He started walking down the hanging paths, footsteps echoing loud in the silence and lantern casting dancing shadows across the walls. 

Lamps hung from the ceiling, long dead. The rickety oak bridges lined the walls, leading to the ground floor that led into everybody’s rooms. It was covered in grass he’d installed in the early days, back before he’d given in to his mind and still cared about things like comfort. He reached the bottom of the steps, bending down and rubbing his hand through the blades.

They were long-dead and brown, now. Months without sunlight had shriveled them up, turned them into petrified former versions of themselves. Wilbur shivered, suddenly feeling the cold of the ravine again. He stood back up, sticking one hand in his pocket and holding his lantern high with the other.

And then there were the buttons. The buttons that countlessly lined the walls, immense in their multitude. They were made of all materials, spruce, oak, stone...

They had haunted him, in Pogtopia. He’d gone to bed, one evening (or what he called bed, back then. It involved very little sleep and a great lot of pacing around his small stone room, jumping at every noise and shadow that he was convinced was someone out to get him.)

And when he left his room in the morning, the buttons were there. Staring at him. Taunting him.

He didn’t remember placing them, honestly. But everyone else seemed convinced he had, so he must’ve been misremembering, right? He couldn’t exactly trust his own mind, he knew, even back then.

So he embraced the buttons. Stroking them, dancing around, spitting very real threats to the people around him. He laughed at the looks in their eyes, the fear and despair and pain. Finally, they understood.

Now, in the present, Wilbur stepped closer to the wall. Stared at one at his eye level. It was plain birch wood, simple and small and unassuming. He raised his hand to it, hovering without touching for a moment. He let his hand drop onto the wall, heart in his throat and breath held.

He hummed, stroking it gently. He didn’t want to press it, but it felt important, somehow. So he took a deep breath, screwed his eyes shut, and pushed his hand in every so slightly harder.

He felt the button depress with a small _click_ that resonated through the ravine, sending his heart pounding with memories of _it was never meant to be_ ‘s and yells and explosions.

But nothing else happened except that small sound, so Wilbur peeked open one eye, then the next. The ravine was fine. He was fine. The button stared at him.

He laughed, softly. Such a stupid, small thing, sending the great Wilbur Soot quaking in his boots.

But enough stalling. He was here with a purpose.

He walked down the ravine, peeking into the farm as he passed by. It was empty, the overturned soil in clumps. It felt eerie. He could almost see Techno kneeling in the soil, humming gently to himself as he placed eyes in the dirt. It brought a memory rushing back.

_It was late, everyone with a reasonable sleep schedule was asleep, but... well. He wasn’t. Hadn’t been in what, three days, now?_

_Instead, he was pacing through the ravine, a cold fire in his heart and whispers of paranoia and destruction in his brain. He desperately wished for a distraction, as simple as someone to talk to.  
_

_It was probably for the best nobody else was here, though. They all looked at him with fear and apprehension in their eyes whenever he was around. Not that he cared - he was a bad guy, after all! People were supposed to fear the villain. He definitely didn’t care, he was_ fine _-  
_

_He pulled his coat tighter around him, lanterns casting a faint light overhead. The cavern was silent except for his footsteps echoing ominously through it and a faint humming. It sounded like it was coming from the farm. Wilbur peeked through the opening.  
_

_Techno was kneeled there, with his back to Wilbur. A basket sat at his side, filled with bonemeal, and his hands were buried in the dirt. Wilbur stood in silence for a while, simply observing.  
_

_“Are you gonna come in?” Techno asked without turning or even pausing in his task, and Wilbur jumped. He hesitated, but when Techno said nothing else, he walked into the room. The dirt was soft beneath his boots as he carefully picked his way between rows of plants.  
_

_He crouched down next to Techno, staring at the piglin’s hands instead of his face. They were stained with dirt, gently moving around the potato plants. A far cry from the warrior’s hands they should’ve been._

_Techno pushed the basket towards him with a hum. “Here, take this,” he said, “and spread a small handful around the base of each plant. They need fertilizer, down here.”  
_

_It reminded Wilbur of sunny summer days spent pestering Techno to let him help in Phil’s garden, and Techno would sigh out, “fine, but you have to_ listen _to what I tell you.” Wilbur would nod eagerly and follow his instructions to the best of his ability, as Techno would teach him about plants and swordfighting and mythology._

_He grabbed some bonemeal and started spreading it around the roots, imitating the man next to him. He did it with nowhere near as much grace, hands shaking too much to be careful with the plants._

_How could he, when all he could do was taint and corrupt and destroy? When his every attempt at nurturing ended in disaster?  
_

_“Can you talk?” he asked quietly, voice rasping, and was worried Techno hadn’t heard him when there was only silence for a few seconds._

_“What about?” Techno asked back. Wilbur shrugged. He just needed something.  
_

_“Alright then. Agamemnon is one of the better known members of the siege of Troy...”  
_

_Wilbur let his voice, low and calm, fade into the background as he kept spreading bonemeal. The repetitive motions were soothing, the dirt in his hands grounding, and Techno’s droning voice chased away the explosions in his head and paranoia in his heart, bringing back memories of better days. Pretty soon, he found his eyes drooping shut.  
_

_He jolted back away with his heart pounding when a hand landed gently on his shoulder._

_“C’mon, let’s get you to sleep,” Techno murmured, and Wilbur shook his head frantically. He was wide awake, nevermind the heaviness in his hands and the fogginess in his brain.  
_

_“Wilbur, you need rest. Here, you can stay in here, okay?” he said gently, guiding Wilbur to lean against the wall and draping his cape over him. Wilbur was too tired to protest, his body shutting down after days without rest._

_Techno turned back to his gardening, and the last thing Wilbur heard was his voice picking back up,_

_“Now, Achilles did not get along with Agamemnon...”  
_

Wilbur smiled at the memory. It was one of the few good ones from this God-forsaken ravine, one of the few times he felt like someone actually cared.

He continued down the ravine to where the rooms were dug out. His was the first on the left. He stood in front of the door and hesitantly pushed it in.

It was like a time capsule - of a pure mess. Papers were scattered everywhere, covered in nigh incomprehensible scribblings. A small bed with thin sheets sat against the wall - mostly unused. On it was his guitar that Niki had smuggled out in the early days, (he’d had to pretend to be overjoyed upon seeing it when really, he only felt a bitter cold down his throat.)

His few belongings sat in a chest at the foot of the bed and he walked over to it. In it were several shirts, socks, some pants - good. Now he could get the hell out of here. He stuffed the clothes into his satchel, let the chest’s lid fall shut with a snap, and stood back up.

He glanced at the guitar - should he take it? He hadn’t played in months, his voice was still hoarse. But... it was calling to him, so he walked over and grabbed it, strumming the open strings once, twice. He hummed, a smile ghosting on his lips, and opened the case leaning on the wall to stick it back in.

Suddenly, footsteps sounded behind him and a new light cast his shadow on the wall. Wilbur’s breaths caught in his throat, joy dying very quickly. He whirled around, lifting his lantern high and stifling a gasp.

“Wil?” Fundy asked, freezing in his steps. He held his own lantern in his paw, its flame dancing softly in the metal cage. He looked as if he had just seen a ghost.

Which, he might as well have, Wilbur realized. As far as he knew, only Phil and Eret were aware he was back.

“Hey, Fundy,” he said with a soft smile. His son shook his head, ears pinned flat.

“What the fuck - are you Ghostbur? I thought you didn’t come here-”

“No, I’m not, Fundy. It’s Wilbur.”

Fundy reeled back. “No, no, what the fuck - Wilbur’s dead.”

“Not anymore. Phil and Eret brought me back.”

Fundy stared at him, shocked. Blinked a few times. “What? You don’t get to do that.” His voice quickly turned steely with anger. “You don’t get to _fucking_ die, to leave me, then just, come back!”

“I’m sorry, Fundy,” 

“Sorry doesn’t fucking cut it! You were always there for me - and then you weren’t! You left, Wilbur, right when I needed you most!” Tears were in his eyes as he yelled, baring his fangs, and Wilbur’s heart clenched. His boy, his little champion... he’d hurt him, in the end, and oh, did that thought sting. 

But he remembered how it felt, seeing Fundy tear down the walls, burn the flag, suck up to Schlatt. And it fucking hurt. He looked down, unable to meet his son’s eyes, anymore.

“I-”

“No!” Fundy interrupted, “shut up! For once in your fucking life, shut up and listen to me! You always avoid everything! You didn’t talk to me, and when you did, you babied me! It was always ‘oh it couldn’t have been that bad’ or ‘that wasn’t _really_ me.’ Bullshit,” he spat out.

“You know what, Wilbur?” Fundy stalked toward his father, tail lashing and fire smoldering in his eyes, and it was Wilbur’s turn to take a step back in fear. “I fucking _hate you_.”

Those words felt like another sword through his chest, like dying all over again - except without the crippling relief. He clapped a hand over his mouth. Tears sprang up in his eyes. His son just stared at him.

He didn’t think anything could feel as awful as the time he’d spied in on one of Schlatt and Fundy’s meetings, when he’d overheard his son say “what was Wilbur to me? He was one of the founders, nothing more.”

He’d been wrong. This was so much worse.

And yet, he deserved it.

Hadn’t he said the exact same thing to Fundy, himself? That he hated him? Only his hadn’t been spat out in a rage-filled tirade, finally letting loose all his pain to the man who’d caused it. The final note in a blaring symphony, leaving a shattered silence in its wake.

Instead, it had almost been a side-note, offhandedly mentioned as part of a larger discussion. A quick “I despise you, Fundy,” dripping with mania and a quiet truth that no vitriolic yelling could ever compare to. A quick cadence in the middle of a piece that continued on without one of its players.

Fundy wasn’t the one Wilbur despised, anymore. No, that title went to himself.

He’d disowned his _son_. He’d neglected Fundy for L’Manberg’s sake, (yet another reason it was the worst mistake he’d ever made,) he’d considered him a liar and a traitor, even when he risked everything to bring help to Pogtopia. 

He really was a piece of shit, wasn’t he?

“Fundy, I...” Wilbur started. Where could he even start? “I don’t know what to say.”

“Yeah, I sure hope you fucking don’t.”

“I definitely deserve all that,” he choked out, ignoring the shocked look Fundy shot him. “I wasn’t the best father, was I?” he chuckled weakly, self-deprecating.

“Yeah, no shit.”

”I... Yeah. All I have to say is... I’m sorry.”

Fundy scoffed. “Really? That’s it?”

“Yeah,” Wilbur breathed out and looked down at the ground.

“Why aren’t you angry at me?” Fundy yelled. “Huh? Why are you like this? I try getting angry at you - and you just make me feel pathetic. Why?” His voice trailed into a sniffle. He rubbed his face in his sleeve. “Why?”

Wilbur wanted nothing more than to go clutch his son tight to his chest and never let go, but that would just make things worse. So he forced his feet to stay planted where they were. It was possibly the hardest thing he’s ever done.

“Like I said, you’re right. I fucked up, and you shouldn’t forgive me. It’s alright, Fundy, I get it.”

“No, no, no! _You_ don’t get it!” Fundy exclaimed, throwing up his hands. “I don’t want to - I really don’t - but I do! I can’t hate you and I don’t know why!”

“I’m trying to be better,” Wilbur said quietly. “I really am. I - I’d really like to make up for everything I’ve done.” He looked up. Fundy stared back. “If you’ll have me, that is. Son,” he added on awkwardly at the end. The word felt clumsy in his mouth, too large and unwieldy in its implications and responsibility.

Fundy didn’t move a muscle. He was breathing hard, staring directly at his father. There was pain in his eyes, pain that Wilbur oh so desperately wanted to take away, and his whiskers twitched just like they always did when he was holding back tears.

Wilbur opened his arms wide and smiled gently, an invitation. The next thing he knew, he had an armful of fox sobbing into his shoulder.

He rubbed soothing circles into his son’s back, whispering gentle nothings as he tried his best not to cry himself (he didn’t quite succeed.)

“Dad,” Fundy cried into his chest, and Wilbur’s heart broke for the third time that day.

“Shh, s’okay, Fundy, my little champion,” he murmured, just like he’d done countless times before. “It’s gonna be okay.”

That was a lie. Wilbur had no clue if things were going to be okay, or even tolerable. But he was certain of one thing: it would be better with his son by his side.

Fundy’s abandonment had been what broke him, in the end. Yes, losing his L’Manberg was hard, but he would have survived. He’d only felt himself irreparably shatter when he stood overlooking Manburg, watching his son burn the flag down, sending everything they’d ever stood for off with the ashes.

Yet another betrayal, he couldn’t help but think.

But it hadn’t been, he quickly reprimanded himself. It wasn’t a betrayal. Fundy was only pretending to get close to Schlatt. It didn’t stop the thought from worming its way into his traitorous head and sticking there. 

He would bring it up but... this wasn’t about him. This was about Fundy. His son who he’d hurt so badly.

“I really regret everything I did those last few months, you know,” Wilbur said into the top of Fundy’s head. “I wasn’t thinking very clearly. I’m proud you’re my son.”

Fundy buried his face deeper in Wilbur’s chest, sniffling. Wilbur just held him tight.

“Thanks, dad.”

It was quiet for a while, father and son just holding each other in the old rebellion’s base where their relationship had fallen apart irreparably. Wilbur felt a sudden urge to say something - something he hadn’t told his son in much too long.

“I love you,” he all but whispered, but he knew Fundy would hear it. He’d always had exceptional hearing.

“I love you too,” Fundy whispered back, and Wilbur’s heart felt like it was going to burst. He squeezed Fundy once more, tightly, and they pulled apart. Wilbur held his son by the shoulders, at arm’s length.

“What were you doing here, anyways?” he asked.

“Oh, I uh, I come here every once in a while. When I need to be alone. And think,” Fundy answered. “Not a lot of people come by, now.”

Wilbur hummed and looked around. “I get it. It’s creepy down here.”

Fundy snorted. “Yeah, it kinda is.” He frowned, and asked, “what about you? Why are you down here?”

“I came for some spare clothes,” Wilbur said, turning to grab the bag on his bed and the guitar. “Eret doesn’t exactly have any in my size or style.”

“Wait, Eret?” Fundy asked, shocked, and yeah, that made sense. Last he’d known, Wilbur still wanted Eret’s head on a plate.

“Yeah, I’m staying with them,” Wilbur explained quietly. “We made up. Kinda.” Fundy just stared at him.

“Who are you and what have you done with Wilbur?” he asked and Wilbur snorted.

“I had a few realizations,” he said with a faint smile. “Besides, they’re not that bad. They tried to adopt you, after all.”

Fundy just looked down at that, one ear twitching, and Wilbur knew if he had human cheeks, he’d be blushing. 

“Aww, no need to be embarrassed,” Wilbur teased, ruffling the fur on top of his son’s head. “My little champion.”

Fundy’s expression quickly turned sour and he slapped Wilbur’s hand away. “That’s what I was talking about.”

“What?”

“That’s what you always do. You baby me. I’m not a kid anymore.”

Wilbur’s gut twisted. He was getting a second chance; he couldn’t fuck this up. “Sorry. I’ll stop,” he said guiltily. He wanted to say more, that he had no clue what he was doing, he just wanted to feel close to his son again, he was trying to make up for everything, but he couldn’t find the words. Some self-proclaimed poet he was.

Fundy just sighed and turned around, walking out of the room. “Come on. I want to get back before it’s dark,” he called out as his lantern’s light dimmed, and Wilbur was quick to follow. He really hated this place.

As he trekked up the paths leading out, Wilbur turned and gazed down over Pogtopia once more. The farm, the rooms, the buttons. All memorials to the revolution, to his life. Where he’d died, in mind and spirit.

But now he was alive, again, and this place no longer needed to be haunted by the specter of Wilbur Soot.

“Wil? You coming?” His son called him from the base of the spiral staircase, one foot on the bottom step and ears pricked inquisitively. Wilbur nodded and turned away, heading towards Fundy and the light.

Farewell, Pogtopia. He wouldn’t be back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fundy was canonically very sad when Wilbur died, despite their relationship not having been... the best... in the end.
> 
> I don’t get the “Wilbur was always a neglectful father” takes because, if anything, he’s almost overly doting and protective in the early L’Manberg days? So I headcanon that their relationship only started to fall apart after the war, when Wilbur’s mental health really started to decline.

**Author's Note:**

> If you have any thoughts or questions on characterization and stuff, please leave a comment or shoot me an ask on my tumblr, ace-enderchest! (I absolutely adore thinking about c!Wilbur) I try to reply to all comments!


End file.
